Immortality, The Tenets of
by Rory J. Evans
Summary: Bella, Edward. They could be the Napoleons, the Alexanders, the Platos; they could be great.


Disclaimer: Twilight Trainwreck not mine. I do find the story and characters interesting, though. Bella dies in this fic. Sorry.

Immortality, The Tenets of

Edward hates them - their inane chatter, their problems, their worries, the fact that they live so carefree and normal. He hates that they can have lives and loves and hopes because if only for a few tenuous seconds, they possess what he has long forgotten how to feel.

For all his speed and agility, Edward feels static and slow, like he's always chasing something out of his reach, like there's light and tunnels and the line he follows is lifedeath_existence_ and all he does is stumble towards the end knowing that he'll go blind before he sees it.

----

They laugh over _Dracula _like they're watching home movies: kids with birthdays and bright blue frosting, endearing uncles and half-deaf aunts, candy and sticky fingers and happy dogs, sunshine that pours from the sky and onto the sidewalk and makes the balloons light up red and transparent.

Edward tries to think back to his childhood days in Chicago: Hyde Park, hydrants flooding the streets, kids in the lake, summer all wet and hot and so _good._ He tries to remember the taste of ice cream and the heat radiating from the cobblestones, gravel biting into his feet. He tries to remember the girl he kissed when he was fifteen, fingers wandering clumsily into her hair and the first touch of tongue in his mouth. He tries to remember how grass feels: crisp, waxy, smooth and how eyes see: fuzzy, blurred, imperfect.

But he can only remember the pain of dying and the agony of being, and he lets his mind make up all the rest.

The world comes back sharp and fast and he finds himself back in the present, grainy picture of the movie in front of him, family bathed in the glow.

"You know, if there's anyone I'd want to have as a representation of us, it's Bela Lugosi,'' Carlisle says, satisfied.

Edward slips from the room unnoticed as their laughter tinkles like breaking crystal in the background.

----

Edward tries to remind himself why they matter: the humans. Their thoughts float in a large, inconsequential bubble inside his head.

He's no God. He's long lost the concept of eatsleeplive but he wants to shake them all awake because somewhere a part of him that's been laid dormant by immortality reminds him how beautiful it was (he wants them to see how beautiful it is), how moments (just pieces and pieces of life that make it worth existing) were so fleeting: so _there_ and then gone.

He could speed up time for himself, launch his body into a flurry of motion, constant and unyielding. He's tried when he was forever young but aching to die. He's learned: nothing, _nothing _makes eternity come quicker.

He's not God; he's just tired.

----

Edward's considered putting his degrees in medicine to good use. He's considered going into the depths of Africa (_That's dangerous, _Carlisle says), impervious to disease or drought, malaria or monsoons.

He could do good.

(_We could be found out._)

----

Edward could convince them that the only thing they had to look forward to wasn't the prom or baseball or a new wardrobe, he's sure of it.

He could use Jasper with his military expertise and ability to control emotions, Rosalie with her charisma, Emmett with his strength, Alice with her premonitions of death and disaster -- they could bring change to the world; they could bring good.

They could be the Napoleons, the Alexanders, the Platos; they could be great.

----

Edward needs a catalyst, an excuse to leave the smaller towns and seek anonymity in the city or elsewhere. He needs to let the foundations crumble beneath him, uproot himself, take his family with him.

He needs to leave the familiar, the old, the already tread paths, and start again.

----

A pungent odor causes him to gasp, to close the airway to his lungs. Not at all unpleasant but strong and overbearing. Edward allows himself a feral smile behind his hand: calculating, patient. He uncurls the fingers of his other hand from the fist he made, reaction to the smell: all animal.

He goes a little dizzy from the sudden drop in pressure.

The girl: he's heard talk of her on wisps of thoughts (_brown hair, new, clumsy, not as pretty as _me, _Phoenix, should I ask her to the prom?_)

She stands at the front of the room like a centerpiece to be gawked at: awkward, fragile, human. When Edward tries to read her mind, there's nothing. He hasn't yet encountered a human who was completely devoid of thought no matter how vile or strange, and he pities her.

It makes it easier, he thinks, if she truly doesn't know what's happening, but some part of him pangs with his lost humanity as he examines her face - kind eyes just this side of pretty - and thinks about what would happen if he doesn't kill her.

For a second, he sees himself falling in love with her, sees himself showing her what he really is. He sees himself sinking his teeth into her neck, her trusting and willing and pliant before him and when he feels the rush of blood against his teeth, he realizes that his thoughts have become reality. His body runs on instinct, pupils blown wide and dark as he tells himself _It's necessary, it's necessary --_

He drinks; trapping the pained gasp before it comes out of her lungs and kisses her on impulse. Her mouth is wet and hot and pulses with life. He thinks, reverent, _I'm touching mortality _as he takes in the feeling of breath beneath his palms on the side of her neck and twists, snapping the bones like dried, brittle sticks in two.

There is blood on his hands and in his mouth and he only has seconds to escape without anyone noticing who it was, why he's running and with each step something inside him begins to quiver and despite it all, he feels lighter.

The sun peaks out over the clouds:

_for freedom._


End file.
